


"Sorry I'm late."

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: 100 ways (to say I love you) [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 08:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16594604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: One cancelled date and acatastrophe later...





	"Sorry I'm late."

**Author's Note:**

> For an anonymous prompter, who was kind enough to let me choose the ship! Thank you for your patience, whoever you are :)
> 
>  **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.

When his call reaches the third ring he has a _huh_ moment.   Nothing to worry about, he figures, Prompto isn’t _always_ glued to his phone.   When it reaches the seventh, and final, ring before the answer machine kicks in, his eyebrows migrate towards his hairline as he casts a glance into the restaurant and the lights twinkling merrily in the windows.  He knows the chances of spying Prompto are slim - he doesn’t like others watching him eat so window seats are the worst choice ever - but not finding that familiar riot of blonde hair tucked behind some of the couples out for a romantic meal before all the holiday hubbub hits is… mildly concerning.

He disconnects without leaving a message to try again, peering at his new companion as he waits for the seconds to tick by (and he _knows_ they tick by, the watch on his wrist is loud enough to drive him up the damn wall on the best of days).  The kitten simply returns his look, blinking in that lazy way cats have, looking simultaneously the most _pitiful_ thing he’s ever seen and one of the cutest, bundled up in one of his spare hoodies and tucked into a box in the hopes of limiting its range of movement.

“What d’you think, little guy?  Am I gonna get my ass chewed out for this?” his furry friend doesn’t answer, not that he _expects_ one, and he clicks redial, head thumping back when it goes straight to ringing again.

 _“Gladio!”_ Prompto squawks from the other end just as he’s about to hang up and march in there instead, and he hurriedly brings the phone back to his ear.   _“Hey man, sorry, phone’s on silent and I had to dance around a couple of old ladies heading for the bathroom.  What’s up?”_

“- Why were you dancing around old ladies?”

_“Because I’m in a restaurant and it’s rude to take a call at the table?  You sound weird, you sick?”_

“No, allergies, listen can I -”

_“Allergies?  What, did you stick your face in a bunch of lilies on the way here?”_

_“Prompto.”_

_“Sorry, sorry, shutting up now.”_

“Yeah so, uh, I know this is really short notice but something’s come up.  Can we do this another night?”

_“... We’ve been planning this for months -”_

“I know, I know, and I’m sorry.  Look, come out front and I’ll explain, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

 _“You’re out front?  And you’re_ calling _me?”_  ah, damn, he’s starting to sound pissed.

“I can _explain_ , Prom, just… please come out front?   And uh, get in the back seat?”

 _“What the hell, Gladio?!  Ugh, fine.  Give me five minutes to - track someone down and apologise for this.”_ And he hangs up before Gladio can respond.

He gets it, he really does, _he’d_ be peeved if Prompto cancelled on him so last minute after months of planning around busy schedules to get _one_ night for a passable date somewhere they’re unlikely to be recognised as the Prince’s retinue.  But being the root of Prompto’s ire, faint and slow building thing that it is, doesn’t sit right with him, much like a lead ball in his stomach making him all kinds of queasy.

“Fingers crossed he likes you, furball, or my ass is toast,” he says.   The kitten, as most felines of the domestic variety tend to do, ignores him.

* * *

Prompto, when he arrives exactly fifteen minutes and twenty seven seconds later (not that Gladio is counting or anything), brings with him a gust of frigid air when he yanks open the door and a glare so frosty even Shiva would weep and he knows just by glancing at that freckled face that no number of apologies will be putting his boyfriend in a better mood, or himself back in the good books.   He looks so quietly _livid_ that he wouldn’t be surprised if Prompto’s eyes flashed red and snapped sparks.

“You couldn’t even give me a ‘sorry I’m late’, huh?   You just launched right into cancelling.   Ifrit’s fiery balls, man, I know your whole life revolves around Noctis and the Citadel and shit but you couldn’t have sent me a message _sooner_?  You had to wait until I was already at the table which, by the way, is one of the top ten worst scenarios I never want to be in?   What the fucking _fuck_ , Gladio?   Did you nearly take Noct’s head off?  Because lemme tell you anything shy of that is gonna have my fist so far up your ass I’ll be able to remove your tonsils free of charge, buddy.”

He takes a breath, holds it for seven seconds, lets it out again, sends a prayer to the Astrals for mercy, then swivels around to meet the full force of Prompto’s ire with what he _hopes_ is a suitably sheepish expression.

“Babe -”

_“Don’t you babe me, Gladiolus Amicitia.”_

“Prompto Argentum, flame to my moth, moon to my tides, light to my darkness -”

“I will castrate you and spoonfeed you the chopped up remains.”

He winces at that, only able to check the urge to cross his legs thanks to the steering wheel hampering such movement and _literally_ takes his fate in his hands when he reaches for the spitting ball of fury and lays a hand on Prompto’s cheek in silent request that he _look_ , even as he says “we have company” in a voice so even he’d surely fool Ignis with it, too.

The change comes over his boyfriend in stages, _I will bite your face off_ shifting to _what the hell_ to _have I lost my damn mind?_ but there at the end, what he’s been hoping for.  The storm clouds gathered around Prompto parting for the barest hint of a smile to break free instead as his body pitches forward in his seat, hands curling round the headrest as he peers down at the witness to what could’ve turned into a spat of epic proportions, dark frown softening as a croon escapes him.

“You stood me up for a cat?” he asks, soft as the sigh of relief Gladio breathes, wiggling his fingers at the kitten in greeting, not that the sleepy little bastard pays him much attention.

“Kinda had to.   It was the least I could do after nearly running him over.”

“Any sign of a mama cat?   Other kittens?”

“None, I checked.   _While_ the furball was climbing all over me, I might add.  Figured I could take him to the vets, ask around a little, see if he belongs to anyone.   But uh, not with our plans.  I really am sorry, Prom.”

“... It’s alright.   I forgive you _this time_.”

* * *

Aside from a minor case of fleas the kitten gets a clean bill of health from the clinic and they take him back to Prompto’s apartment where there’s less activity to spook him and fewer escape routes for him to wander out of in his grand adventures tripping over his own paws and chittering at the feathery toy Prompto whips and waves over his head.

“What are we gonna call him?   We can’t keep saying kitten or little guy or -”

“I was thinking of Skids.”

 _“Oh my god_ , no!” Prompto squawks back, indignant and horrified, landing a kick to his shin for good measure.  Gladio laughs - _wheezes_ , really - and lifts his feet out of the way, folds his legs up and under and props his chin on a fist, watches with nothing else on his mind but this, just this, and Prompto’s delighted laughter as the kitten latches onto the toy, only for his forward momentum to send his hind end right up and over his head.  Beyond that door is a world of responsibilities, studies and lectures and council meetings and shadowing Noctis on his adventures throughout the city to make sure nobody tries to stab him in the back - or glass him in a bar again.  And Iris, between her shelter work and the parties and exams and her own sparring sessions, despite her protests.

But here, now, it’s just them and a kitten and some nonsense on the radio, a peace he’d love to treasure except for the itching in his eyes and nose and sinuses in general, the tickle in his throat that’s been getting steadily worse since he first picked up the furball.

“What about Sooty?”

_“Sooty?”_

“Yeah!  ‘Cuz of his socks - it looks like he’s stepped through someone’s fireplace.”

“Little Terror works, too.”

“You’re terrible - and you sound it, too.  Have you taken your allergy meds yet?”

“Yup.”

“Bahamut’s frilly knickers, you sound like _you’re_ about to cough up a hairball, man.   Are you even gonna survive the night for us to start putting up adverts for adoption?”

He fixes Prompto with a glare at that, maybe just a _little_ affronted that he thinks a stupid allergy will be the death of him (as if!)... but he does have a point.  Breathing isn’t _difficult_ so much as it’s uncomfortable, for now, but his eyes are - yeah, okay, he’s gonna be enough of a man to admit they feel like they’re on fire if Prompto asks.

_Please don’t ask._

All four paws clamp down on Prompto’s hand as he rubs at the kitten’s chest and he laughs as he lifts his index finger to boop against a dark nose.   “We’ll need to give you another flea bath tomorrow, little man.   Get you all suited and booted for your photo shoot.  Can’t have you offing my boyfriend when he has a cancelled date to make up for.”

“You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”

“Nuh-uh!”

* * *

Ignis stares at the grey ball of _terror_ doing the feline equivalent of cartwheels up and down his sofa in pursuit of Noct’s scritching hand and the ribbons he pulls from the Armiger without a second thought.  He makes a note to ask about _those_ later, but for now…

“And what makes you think either of us are suited to take care of a cat?” he asks, calm as the sea at sunset even though nerves prickle at the back of his neck and make his palms clammy.   _Too much responsibility!_ his mind screams even as his heart melts to a puddle of goo at his feet to see the unrestrained delight on Noct’s face, in his laughter, in the coos and croons he bestows the kitten as it latches onto him and kick-kick-kicks with its hind legs against his forearm, spared of bloodshed only because of the leather he hasn’t yet had time to pull off.

Prompto stares at him, eyebrows moving to his hairline so fast it’s a miracle they don’t rocket skyward, and very slowly, as though conversing with a child, extends both arms to the sight Noctis and the kitten make, hands spread wide as if to say _do you need any more reason than this?_ Ignis scowls at him for lack of an articulate answer, and turns to Gladiolus in the hopes he, at least, still possesses a modicum of sense.

He honestly looks as if a lukewarm Hellfire has dropped atop his head, eyes so red and swollen and watery it’s a miracle he’s not clawing at them every few seconds, and his breathing sounds like that penguin from the animated movie Noctis favoured as a child - Wheezy? Squeaky? - and he looks absolutely _miserable_.  There is absolutely no way Gladiolus can reclaim ownership of the kitten if he’s allergic, Ignis wouldn’t inflict that anyone, even the Chancellor of Niflheim.  Prompto cannot become the kitten’s guardian either, with how closely his time intertwines with Gladio’s, the stray hairs from every pet and headbutt surely enough to trigger allergic reactions.    _Noctis_ cannot hope to keep it, either, with how busy his schedule is, and he doesn’t have much free time either -

“We’ll make it work, Iggy.   Even if I have to smuggle him into Council meetings.   I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you, kiddo?   I bet I could train you to nibble on toes and warp treats under the table for you, yes I could!  You’d be the perfect reason to call an end to those boring things.”

 _“Noctis,”_  he says, horrified at the very idea (even if he has a sneaking suspicion His Majesty would find no end of amusement in such a situation, since his humour aligned so closely with Noct’s), but there’s defiance in those ocean blues and he knows with a sinking feeling in his gut that this is a debate he’ll lose, for certain.   Noctis is nothing if not a fierce lover of all things furred, feathered, and scaled, feeding and petting and playing with every creature his eyes land on if they’ll allow his approach, to the point he’s had to drag him from many a dog in the park to be elsewhere _on time_ _godsdammit_.

“Okay, well, how about I rub catnip all over Captain Drautos’ uniform instead? Maybe you climbing all over him will make the sour bastard crack a smile for once.”

The vision of Noctis impaled on the Captain’s sword flashes through his mind and he goes cold all over, mouth dropping open to say _something_ , anything -

“Look, if it’s too much hassle I can always ask Monica.  She has a couple of cats, I just figured it might be safer to bring him to someone _without_ any others to scrap with over territory.” Prompto says, the voice of reason and saving grace, and Ignis should drop to his knees and kiss his feet for curbing Noctis’s impulsive tendencies when he cannot.  Even if he _did_ bring some spare toys for him to stash away in the Armiger.

“Naw, it’s cool.   We’ll manage, won’t we, Ash?”

_No._

“See reason, Noctis.  How do you think Umbra will take to this kitten?” he’s grasping at straws, it’s obvious and they all know it, but he has to _try_ and Noctis... merely fixes him with an expression caught between ire and amusement, ceasing his play with the furball as it climbs into his lap and bites on one of the ludicrous buckles over his knee.

“Are you _seriously_ using a godly messenger as an excuse to not adopt this ball of adorable fluff?  Really?  Wow, Iggy, that’s lame.  I expected better of you.”

“A godly messenger with _ungodly_ breath of the canine variety, Noctis.”

* * *

They leave the kitten - Ash - in Noctis’s capable hands, despite Ignis’s many, varied protests and slumped shoulders in defeat.   Prompto even has the photographic evidence of the victory, Gladio’s hand clapped on one of those shoulders and grinning despite his allergy-induced suffering, Noctis in the background with a snoozing kitten tucked into the crook of his right knee.

_“Welcome to fatherhood, Iggy.”_

_“I will kill you in your sleep, Gladiolus.”_

He sends the picture to Noctis for use in any further debates then tips his head up and bats his lashes at Gladio, plastering a saccharine smile on his face.  “Gonna make up for that dud date, loverboy?”

“When I feel less like I’m dying, sure,” is the surly reply, and he laughs, reaching up to pull twice on some of that ridiculous mane of hair.

“I’m _kidding_.  Takeout at my place is - actually no, your place.   I’ll pay.  I need to take some tape to every piece of furniture the little guy was on so you’re not allergic to my apartment of all places.  The memories we’d waste otherwise!”

“Really.  I’m all gross and snotty and you’re thinking of my dick?”

“Your ass all pretty and perfect over the kitchen counter, actually, but same difference.”

And if he happens to detect the _embarrassed_ note to that definitely fake cough of Gladio’s, well, he won’t comment on it at all.  Ever.  Not once.

... Maybe the next time he’s drunk as a skunk and draped over Noct’s lap, provided he manages to best Ash for the privilege.


End file.
